


Purgatory

by Emerald447



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-06-25
Packaged: 2017-12-07 18:29:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emerald447/pseuds/Emerald447
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>*ON HIATUS* <br/>Instead of ordering for Sherlock's suicide, Moriarty kidnapped him. Holding him against his will, and with the threat of his friends dying, Sherlock must survive day to day at Moriarty's disposal, with the glimmer of hope that somebody will come for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is quite dark. It deals with kidnapping, rape, violence, and psychological fuckery. So, just be cautious.

“You look a little tense, baby,” Joked the man standing in front of him. Sherlock frowned, but did not reply. The man traced his arms, caressing them with a touch that one could easily mistake for affection. But it wasn’t like that. It was never going to be like that. 

“John?” he asked, his tone serious. Moriarty frowned.

“Not dead. Now, as usual, do as you are told, and it will stay that way.”

“And Mrs. Hudson? Lestrade?”

Moriarty sighed as he gave Sherlock a dumb look. But Sherlock had to be sure. If any of his friends were dead, it would be different. Moriarty moved away and took off his expensive jacket, draping it over a chair. The room they were in looked like a fancy hotel, but there were no windows. Sherlock had no idea where he was, which was somewhat concerning, but he had slowly gotten use to the mystery. This had been going on for months. Sherlock had learned to cope. He hadn’t at first, and perhaps he had tricked himself into thinking he was coping, but he had managed.

“You look so good today.” Said Moriarty coming towards him again. He kissed him on the lips, his tongue violating his mouth. Sherlock stilled, and did not reciprocate. He never ever did, and funnily enough, Jim never threatened him to do so. Sherlock suspected it got him off. 

“Loosen up.” He whispered into his lips with a smirk. Sherlock just stared back at him, expressionless. Moriarty pushed him back to the edge of the bed, until the back of his knees hit the mattress. As Sherlock sat, Moriarty straddled him, pushing his back to the bed. “You can cry if you like,” He whispered into his ear. “Like last time. It is such a turn on.”

The thought made Sherlock’s breath hitch in his throat. He hadn’t meant to cry last time. It had been a particularly bad day. Moriarty had him four times. The last, Sherlock just could not take, although it hadn’t stopped him, of course. He tried to push the memory out of his mind as Moriarty gently started unbuttoning his shirt. He wondered what John would think of this? John didn’t even know he was alive, let alone living like this. Four months ago, Sherlock was a sociopathic, virgin. Now, he was only the former. He closed his eyes as Moriarty ravished his neck, his own hands creasing the bedspread. 

“Open your eyes, Sherlock.” He whispered, calmly. It wasn’t a threat, because Jim knew he would listen. As he opened his eyes again, he looked down as Moriarty went to the belt of Sherlock’s pants, his own already unbuckled.

“Don’t you get bored?” asked Sherlock, keeping the composure in his voice, even though it was gone from his mind. Moriarty actually laughed and kissed his thigh, before trailing back up, his lips going to Sherlock’s ear. “All the time, but not with you.”

He grinded his hips against Sherlock’s, kissing his lips again. Sherlock used everything he had not to make a sound, to not give Moriarty the satisfaction.

“What will it be this time?” asked Moriarty. “On your back or on your stomach?”

“Stomach.” Said Sherlock straight away. That was the way he always chose when given the choice. He didn’t have to look at the face that was raping him. He could close his eyes and go somewhere else. He turned onto his stomach by his own accord, his hands going back to crinkling the bedspread. He felt Moriarty pull his pants all the way off, and settle between his legs. 

“Remember, Sherlock, that you belong to me.”

Sherlock actually smiled. Because there was one thing he didn’t know. Moriarty assumed that everybody thought him dead, and that nobody would go looking. But one person knew. The one who at the very start, was going to help him fake his death before things turned wrong. Molly. Molly knew everything. She saw from the shadows as Moriarty took him. She didn’t know where he was taken, but she knew he was alive. And after their plan had failed, after things had changed, she knew to keep it secret to all who were being watched. The only person Sherlock had informed her of speaking to after he had “died” was Mycroft, to tell him the plan. And if anything went wrong, Sherlock told her to tell him everything, and only him.

Moriarty pushed into him, hard, and his thoughts were interrupted. Sherlock groaned, not out of satisfaction, but from the intrusion. It didn’t hurt anymore. It was just uncomfortable. Sometimes, Moriarty would force Sherlock to come. That was what he hated the most. But he tried not to think about those moments too much.

It had been four months, but Mycroft would find him. He always did. Secretly and quietly, Mycroft would save him. He had no doubt. He just had to wait. He just had to stay alive. And, most importantly he needed to keep John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade alive. 

Moriarty moved faster. Sherlock smiled into the bed, stifling his laugh at his thoughts. The noise came out as breathy grunts. Moriarty knew Sherlock never enjoyed the intercourse, no matter how his body reacted, so Sherlock didn’t bother clarifying.

Soon. Soon, Moriarty would pay.

 

Mycroft sat at his desk with bags under his eyes. He had been searching, and searching, and had come close, several times. He knew his little brother was being moved every couple of weeks, even though he was assured Moriarty knew nothing of their plans. Whenever they got close, it would be too late. Moriarty was being extra careful. They had to be quicker. He remembered the moment he found out what Sherlock had planned. Molly Hooper had told him everything. That Sherlock was to fake his death, and that after John and everybody else thought him dead, he would make contact. 

Her story however, changed, and tears flowed down her cheeks as she told him of what had happened instead. Moriarty had captured him, drugged him on the roof and dragged him to an unmarked car, Molly, hidden away, watching everything. She didn’t know what to do, and was in a state. She thought Moriarty was going to kill him for real, but Mycroft knew better. If he wanted him truly dead, he would have done it beforehand, not dragged him to a car. 

Watchers on Moriarty had confirmed the story, and that Sherlock was alive. So he fabricated the story of Sherlock being murdered by Moriarty. He sold it too the papers and the media. He informed John that they had found a body so disfigured, only DNA tests could confirm. John couldn’t know, nobody else could. Molly had been sworn to secrecy. All he had to do now was find his little brother. He didn’t know what state he would be in when he did, just as long as he was alive. 

 

Sherlock sat on the couch in the room, shuffling a pack of cards. The sandwich they had bought in for him lay untouched on the table. He hardly ever ate anymore. He was gauntly thin. He smiled as he remembered the countless times John had tried to make him eat, especially when they were on a case. It had been about four hours since Moriarty left. Sherlock had showered and dressed in clean clothes. He wore the same thing he would have on any normal day – meaning a day he wasn’t being held hostage. Moriarty seemed to like it, and didn’t supply him with anything else. 

Moriarty arrived as he shuffled the cards again and again. He walked in casually, sitting down opposite Sherlock and glanced down at the untouched sandwich.

“It’s gourmet.” He said, smiling.

Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the cards. Moriarty shrugged and picked up half of the sandwich and took a bite. 

“How has your afternoon been?” he asked, his voice slightly muffled from the food in his mouth. 

“The same as usual.” Sherlock said simply. “Boring, repetitive, pointless.”

Moriarty gave him a fake sympathetic look. He wiped his mouth as he put the sandwich back down on the expensive china plate.

“I’m sorry, honey. I know you’re bored, I really do. I have something exciting planned for tonight.”

That stopped Sherlock’s shuffling. He looked to Moriarty for the first time, and narrowed his eyes. 

“Somebody else will be joining us.” He added.

“Who?”

“Just somebody.”

Sherlock frowned, putting his cards down.

“Do I know this individual?”

Moriarty contemplated giving it away, huffing.

“No.”

That made it worse. 

 

It was late in the evening, around 9:40pm when shuffling was heard outside the door. Sherlock sat down on a chair, waiting to see who would enter. He heard a female voice, scared and confused. Sherlock put his head in his hands; trailing up to his black curls and sighed. This was different. Why was Moriarty bringing another person into this?

The door opened and the poor girl was practically thrown to the floor, Moriarty behind her, beaming at Sherlock. She sobbed and tried to get up, but Moriarty put his foot on her back, stopping her from moving. She finally looked to Sherlock, with red eyes.

“Look what I got!” Moriarty sung out. Sherlock went to stand, but Moriarty put his hand out.

“No, stay there, you’re in the perfect spot.” 

Sherlock looked back down to the ground. She was in her late twenties, had an office job, and lived locally. Moriarty got out his gun and she flinched when she saw it. He took his foot off her back so she could sit up straight.

“I’m sorry I scared you.” He whispered, getting down to her level. He caressed her chin as she shivered beneath him. “But I need you to do something for me.” He looked to Sherlock with a smile. “See this dashing young man, I need you to blow his brains out.” 

Her eyes widened as she looked to the gun. He cocked his head, before realizing and laughed, waving the gun in her face. “Oh no! Not this! I mean, your mouth, if you don’t mind.”

“Jim.” Sherlock said, keeping the composure in his voice.

“What’s the matter, gorgeous?” Moriarty grabbed the girl by her collar and dragged her over to where he was sitting. Her eyes were wide with terror as she looked up to Sherlock from the ground, and back to her captor.

“I’ll let you do it.” Said Sherlock to Moriarty, practically pleading. “I’ll even do it to you, I’ll do anything to you. Just leave the girl out of this.”

Moriarty huffed, dropping the girl’s collar and kneeled down to face level with Sherlock.

“Maybe later.” He whispered, obviously aggravated. He put his hands to the button of Sherlock’s pants. “Now shut the fuck up, and get your cock out.” He unbuttoned the pants and slipped his hands to Sherlock’s crotch, releasing him.

The girl tried to back away on the floor, but Moriarty smiled again.

“Oh no you don’t!” he walked over, grabbed her by the collar again, and dragged her back, lifting her up so she was on her knees, she lost her balance as her hands went to Sherlock’s thighs for stability. She was sobbing as she looked up at him. Sherlock didn’t know what to do, or to say. So he just stared back, trying to get across to her that he did not want this. Then, Moriarty put the gun to the back of her head, and she stilled. Sherlock’s breath hitched as he saw what he was threatening. Slowly, the girl shakily lowered her head to Sherlock’s crotch.

Moriarty smiled. 

Sherlock tried to disengage himself from the situation. He tried to will himself to be anywhere else. But it wasn’t working. The poor girl was going for her life, fuelled by terror. He couldn’t help the way his body reacted. It didn’t take long, and she moved away as he finished, unsure of what to do, tears mingling with some of the come that had accidently spilled onto her face. Sherlock slumped back in the chair, his head falling back, ashamed of himself. The girl was still holding onto his thighs, and Sherlock looked back up, confused. She was staring at him; her hands shaking. He realised that Moriarty still hadn’t moved the gun from her head.

“That was gorgeous.” He whispered to the girl. He kneeled down and kissed her erotically, tasting her tears as her hands creased in Sherlock’s trousers. “You did wonderfully.” He whispered in her ear, before releasing the trigger of the gun, and suddenly her blood and scull and everything went everywhere. It was on Sherlock’s crotch, his white shirt, and on his face. Her face was now unrecognizable as the body slumped forwards into his lap, and then to the ground. Sherlock gaped, shock overcoming him. Moriarty put his gun in his pocket, and stepped over the dead body, kissing Sherlock again. 

“What a mess.” He whispered with a smirk. Sherlock looked back.

“You didn’t have to do that.” He said back, his voice hoarse. 

“I know.” He replied simply. “Maybe you should go have a shower? It should be all cleaned up by the time you get back, and then I can fuck your brains out…. of course, not as literally as this.” He pointed down to the dead body and shook his head. “Shame, she was quite pretty.”

 

The water was scalding. He never had it this hot, but he wanted the blood gone. He tossed the clothes away, not wanting to see them again. Sherlock shivered, even though the water temperature made the room fog. He wished he were back in his own shower, back in Baker Street. After, he would have commenced with an experiment, John would have made him tea, and everything would have been perfect.

He finished washing himself, and stepped out of the glass menagerie, to find expensive pajamas waiting. He slipped them on, and went to the bedroom, to see Moriarty typing on his phone on the couch. Sherlock saw the chair he was sitting in not even an hour ago. It, as well as the ground was spotless, no blood stains, no evidence. He moved straight to the bed, as usual, getting in and wrapping the expensive comforter around him. He heard Moriarty’s phone lock, and footsteps coming towards the bed. He took off his pants and jacket, and got in next to him, looking to the roof.

They were silent for a moment. Before Sherlock nearly froze with terror at what Moriarty said next. 

“Molly Hopper.”

He stiffened. His breathing quickened and he turned over to look at Moriarty next to him. He tried to remain calm as he gazed at the man next to him.

“What about her?”

“Did you ever hit that?” 

Sherlock was confused. He didn’t know what this conversation was leading to.

“No. We were never close.” He said back plainly. Moriarty grinned, turning to face Sherlock.

“I did.” He said, nearly giggling at Sherlock’s reaction.

Was that it? Was that all? He hoped so. 

“Maybe I should get her in here one day?”

Sherlock didn’t want to make it seem like he cared.

“If you did, it would be quite the shock for her.”

“Ah yes, you coming back from the dead? Quite.” He caressed Sherlock’s face again before whispering in his ear.

“I think you owe me something, sweetheart.” He pulled back the covers and released himself from his briefs.

The subject was changed, to Sherlock’s relief. He sighed as he moved down the bed.

Where are you, Mycroft?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft continues his search, Molly is worried, and Sherlock finds it hard to cope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos and the comments. I am not a great writer, so thanks for sticking with me. You guys are lovely. xx

He had a cup of tea, which tasted off from the moment he sipped it. It was laced with sedatives. Moriarty knew Sherlock had a particular resilience to drugs, so the taste was noticeably altered. That could only mean one thing. They were moving. It was quite clever, Sherlock thought at the beginning when they had first done so. Drugging him made him sleep. He always awoke in a different location, having no clues as to where he was and no chance of escape.

He put down his cup and turned to Moriarty who grinned, winking.

“Sweet dreams.”

It took twenty seconds for him to fully black out. He never knew how long he was asleep for, but this time he awoke in a room very much the same as the last, only different in exterior. He felt groggy and wiped his eyes. Moriarty was pacing the room, on his mobile. As soon as he realised he was awake he ended his call. Sherlock sat up, rubbing his head, before asking the same question.

“John?”

“Alive.” Said Moriarty, raising his eyebrows. “Gosh, if you love him so much, why don’t you marry him?”

Sherlock huffed at his insolence. He saw a sandwich placed on the bedside table, and took a few bites before sighing and examining the room, again, no windows. It seemed high class, and he didn’t know if he was in a building, up high or down low. Moriarty really did know how to stump him.

“Hope you like our new home. The bathroom is through there.”

Sherlock sighed.

“How long will we be here?” asked Sherlock this time, not expecting an answer.

He chuckled back. “Don’t know.”

“And what, pray I ask, is my purpose? I’m still here, still alive. You go to all the trouble to drug me and change locations. I am of no use to you, as I have mentioned a countless number of times. You don’t let me do anything. Surely I am only a burden?”

Moriarty waltzed over to Sherlock and put his hands on his shoulder.

“You know why you’re here.” He said. “You’re here, so you’re not out there. You can’t interfere, you can’t do anything.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“You could just kill me.”

“But what’s the fun in that? I get bored too, Sherlock. You being here prevents that.” He gave him an innocent look. “And, I like to fuck you.” He added with a wink. He turned around, sitting in front of the unused fireplace.

Psychopath.

He loitered over to Moriarty, sitting down opposite him, placing his fingers on his chin as he spoke.

“How long are your hit men willing to camp outside of Baker Street?”

“As long as I say.” Said Moriarty with a matter of fact look, as if it were the most obvious question in the world. “Would you be as cooperative as you have been if they weren’t there?”

“Obviously not.” Said Sherlock. “I wouldn’t be here.”

He smirked again, resting his elbows on his knees.

“God, I love you.” He winked, before getting up and rubbing his hands together. “Got to go. People to see, things to do. There are some books on the shelf, and…well, amuse yourself.”

He smiled, before heading out the door.

As usual, whenever they moved, he did his routine check of the room. The door was locked, heavily guarded on the other side. There were cameras in the room, as there had been in each previous room. The bathroom was filled with his usual shampoo. The draws in the room had nothing of importance, save for some lube in the very bottom. It was brand new, unopened. His suitcase was on the floor near the bed. He never unpacked. Ever. There was a television, flat screen, quite expensive, but as usual, it didn’t have live broadcasting. Stacks of DVDs were in the cupboard, along with a few board games and puzzles.

The day that Sherlock first awoke in an unfamiliar room with Moriarty looming over him was the worst. Moriarty explained what was going to happen. He had told Sherlock that if he were to disobey his orders, try to escape, or attempt suicide, which was Sherlock’s first option, he would shoot Mrs. Hudson. Then, he raped him. And when he had left, Sherlock had sat down, too upset to cry, and wondered how his plan had gone so wrong. Now, he knew what to expect. He popped on a DVD, sat down with a Rubik’s cube, and doodled on a piece of paper, hating himself, and everybody, and praying that somebody would come to him.

The thing was that the rape wasn’t the worst thing about his captivity. He hadn’t used his mind in so long. Months, he had been confined to rooms with no sunlight, no fresh air, and nothing to do. At least with the rape he could conjure some sort of coping mechanism afterwards. It was something to reflect on and to think about. He tried to think of ways to make it more durable since he knew it wasn’t going to stop any time soon. He tried to understand why Moriarty was doing it. And he tried to think of ways in which he would cope, if he ever escaped, outside in the real word now that he was a rape victim. He swallowed as he reflected on this and tried not to let tears dwell in his eyes. He thought back to the girl they had bought in some weeks ago, shot right in front of him after being sexually assaulted as well. Did she have a boyfriend? A partner? He couldn’t remember a ring of any sort. But she did have a family, a family that probably didn’t know where she was. Sherlock hated sentiment, but this time, this time it was personal, and he hated it.

 

Mycroft had news that Moriarty had moved. They were closer than ever before. All three of the gunman on John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson had been located, but not arrested. It would cause suspicion on Moriarty’s end. Now all there was to do was take down Moriarty himself, and he could stop everything and save his brother.

“I…I don’t understand.” Said Molly, shaking and pale. “If you can follow Moriarty, why haven’t you found Sherlock? WHY HAVEN’T YOU SAVED HIM?”

Mycroft knew she was distressed and worried. He wouldn’t hold it against her.

“My dear, what would Jim Moriarty do if he found out we knew he had Sherlock?”

Molly didn’t answer.

“Gunman are still aimed at John, Greg Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. Do you really think he would hesitate in letting them die if we got involved without a plan?”

“And what is the plan?”

“To take down his network. Make sure everybody is safe, including your self, before we move. We are close, Molly. Be patient.

She sobbed, wiping her nose with her sleeve.

“I can try to be patient,” she said, walking closely to his face. “But I wonder how patient Sherlock is? What is he going through? Is he hurt? Injured? DEAD? We don’t know. So don’t tell me to be patient when he trusted you to find him.”

And she stormed out of his office.

And Mycroft knew she was right.

 

Sherlock had broken the mirror, having thrown a hairbrush to the expensive item in the bathroom in a fit of rage. He hadn’t done this before, but he couldn’t help it. This whole situation was unbearable. He flung all the products onto the floor on the bathroom counter, before screaming at the top of his lungs. Moriarty leant on the doorframe, his arms crossed, patiently watching Sherlock in his tantrum.

“Is this what you wanted?!” shouted Sherlock. He walked into the main room and kicked a chair, sending it flying across the room. “LET ME GO.”

“No.” said Moriarty.

“I AM OF NO USE.” He shouted back. “Why can’t you just kill me? Just do it.”

“No.” said Moriarty again, walking into the room. Sherlock’s face contorted with anger as he picked up a china ashtray and flung it towards the television, shattering the screen.

“Chucking a tantrum won’t help” said Moriarty, looking to his fingernails. “You can break everything in this room, I’ll let you.”

Sherlock turned to him, his breathing uneven.

“Why?” he said, patronizing Moriarty’s previous words. “Why will you let me? Why?”

Moriarty just smiled. Sherlock growled, before kicking at the door. It wasn’t budging, and Moriarty showed no move to stop him.

“What if I hurt you? I could overpower you.” Said Sherlock, his voice softening. Moriarty’s grin grew wider.

“You can't, and you won’t.”

And Sherlock knew he was right. Mrs. Hudson would die. Lestrade would die. And John would die. Sherlock finally sat down on a sofa chair, his head in his hands, practically pulling at his curls. He started to sob. He was going insane. And that is what Moriarty wanted.

Moriarty strolled over to Sherlock and sat opposite him on the other side of the room. Sherlock glanced up to him, and without taking his eyes off the man he reached for a vase, and threw it, intentionally missing Moriarty, it smashed against the wall behind him. Moriarty turned around, and faked a surprised look.

“Well, that would have hurt.” He said, sitting back and crossing his arms, looking quite relaxed.

Sherlock flung his head against the back of the chair, wiping his eyes before tears could fall. He finally sat back up, and couldn’t stand the way Moriarty was staring at him. He made his way over to the other side of the room. Moriarty followed him, before resting his chin on Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Cheer up, Sweetheart!” he sang into his ear. Sherlock tensed.

“Don’t touch me.” He whispered.

Moriarty’s hands trailed down to his chest. Sherlock closed his eyes, before flinging around and pushing him off him.

Moriarty smirked again.

“Feisty.” He said. “Watch the suit next time.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“I mean it, stay away from me.”

“And when has that ever stopped me?”

“It hasn’t.”

“Exactly.”

“My lenience towards you raping me does not give you reason to think I enjoy it.”

“I don’t.”

Sherlock tried to get to the bathroom, before Moriarty grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him back towards the bed. Sherlock knew he couldn’t hurt him, but he sure as hell could fight. They fought with each other for quite sometime, before Moriarty simply overpowered Sherlock. Lack of food, and his distressed state contributed to this. As he entered him, Sherlock howled, his hands flailed out in front of him.

“GET OFF ME.”

He pushed inside of him again.

“STOP IT.”

Harder and harder. Moriarty silenced his screams with a kiss. This was the most resistance (save the first time he had Sherlock), which he had shown while having sex. It lasted for a while. He twisted and turned and screamed. He even tried biting Moriarty’s hand, but he just slapped Sherlock’s face hard and he didn’t do it again. Eventually Sherlock became too exhausted and went limp. Moriarty continuously pounded into him. And when he finished, Sherlock didn’t move. He was breathing heavily, out of breath but stayed sprawled out on the bed. He stayed like that for about fifteen minutes. Moriarty watched attentively. When Sherlock finally stirred and sat up, his eyes bloodshot, he turned his gaze to Moriarty sitting back at his seat on the sofa.

“In half an hour, I will bring you dinner, and then you can rest.” He got up, kissed Sherlock on the forehead, and left.

And Sherlock let him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Help finally arrives for Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am currently on 2 weeks of holidays, so I have some time to update. Thank you for reading, once again.

When he opened his eyes the next morning, he proceeded to close them again, not wanting to wake up from the peaceful darkness that had overcome him the night before. Curiosity got the better of him as he re-opened his eyes. Moriarty was nowhere to be seen, but the room was tidy. Sherlock was a light sleeper, so he didn’t know how or when things had been fixed. He came to the conclusion that his food had been drugged without his knowledge to send him into a deeper sleep than usual. The television was gone, the chair he had damaged, disappeared, and the vase he had thrown was nowhere to be seen. He sat up fully in the bed, flinging his legs over the edge to see breakfast was on the coffee table. It was just two pieces of toast, buttered lightly and a glass of water. He was lucky Moriarty had fed him at all after the previous performance he had given him. 

As he sat down to take a bite of toast, he glanced up at the security camera in the corner of the room. It saw everything. Everything Sherlock did alone, every time Moriarty raped him, including the events of the night before. It had all been recorded. Sherlock supposed it could all be used as evidence if (when) he escaped. He knew it was important that his experiences with Moriarty were not gone unknown. In fact Sherlock would be very interested to look at some of the footage. What did Moriarty do when he was asleep? What happened after he was drugged? 

He rubbed his eyes and went to the bathroom to have a shower. He hadn’t showered since the morning before, and he could still feel Moriarty’s body over him, and dried semen stuck to his legs. As he approached the bathroom, he realised the counter had been reorganized, but the mirror still remained broken. He shrugged, now desperate to clean himself. 

When he remerged from the bathroom, Moriarty was sitting on the sofa, waiting patiently. Sherlock approached, his hair slightly damp.

“Where do you go?” asked Sherlock, raising an eyebrow. “You don’t stay here all the time. Sometimes I awake and you haven’t even stayed the night.”

“I do have some separate accommodation, however I much prefer to stay with you.” He winked, and Sherlock shuddered. “And how are we feeling this morning?”

Sherlock didn’t answer the question. He sat down and had another bite of the now cold toast. 

“You really should eat more, Sherlock.” He said. “I could feel your bones more prominently than ever, last night.”

“Your problem.” Said Sherlock, sitting back and chomping down the dry bread. 

“Does your throat hurt? All of that screaming and shouting, oh it even hurt my poor ears.” 

“Good.” Said Sherlock plainly. 

Moriarty smiled widely. 

“Oh, you’re funny.”

They stayed silent for a while. Moriarty got up and strolled over to the sofa, sitting next to him. Sherlock turned suspiciously to glance at him, before Moriarty’s hands went to his fly. Sherlock grabbed his hand in motion, looking straight into the man’s eyes.

“You need this, Sherlock.” He whispered. “I know I hurt you a bit last night. Let me make it up to you.”

“I will never consent to you doing anything to me. Is that understood?”

“Of course.” He whispered. “Now let go of my hand.”

Sherlock had to, his voice had a threating tone to it. Moriarty slowly stroked him to completion. He was gentle. Sherlock didn’t know why. And when it was done, Moriarty got up and wiped his hands with his handkerchief, re buckling Sherlock’s pants.

“That was nice.” Whispered Moriarty. 

He got up, and left. 

 

The day was filled with nothingness. Nothing happened that was remotely interesting. He didn’t see Moriarty again until lunchtime before he left again. It was around late afternoon when Moriarty strolled back into the room, closing the door slowly and turned to look at Sherlock, his hands at his sides.

“You’re good.” He said simply. 

Sherlock cocked his head. 

“Really, very good. And so is your brother.”

Sherlock tried not to look interested He tried to keep composed. His heart however, was beating fast. 

“Molly Hooper.” Whispered Moriarty. “Molly Hooper.” He turned to look at Sherlock. “There were no gunman on her, were there?”

“Not that I recall.” Said Sherlock plainly. Were? Were. Why was he using past tense?

“No, but you aren’t as distant as you claim to be, am I correct?”

Sherlock didn’t know if this conversation would end with a victory, or his world falling apart.

“We don’t have long.” Said Moriarty, checking his watch. “So let’s wrap this up here.” He pulled out his gun from his pocket. Sherlock hardly flinched.

“Are you going to shoot me?” asked Sherlock.

“I don’t think so.” Said Moriarty. “I am very angry, but this is just a new chapter in our lives. And I don’t think you will ever forget what has happened here.”

“What’s the matter? What’s going on?”

“I could shoot you, yes.” Continued Moriarty. “But then I’d just be bored again.”

Sherlock smiled. 

“They found me.”

Moriarty nodded, turning on the spot and pointing to Sherlock..

“And you think this is over.” He asked quite calmly.

“It is.”

“No, it’s not. It never will be. Understand this, Sherlock. Your brother thinks he has taken me down, but I am a powerful man, and I won’t stay low for long.”

“But you will go quietly?” asked Sherlock. “With the police I mean.”

He shrugged. 

“It hasn’t stopped me before.” 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. 

“This has been fun, really.” He moved towards Sherlock so their bodies were touching. “I loved watching you anguish over your friends. I loved the torture that every day brought you. I loved watching you writhe beneath me.” He looked him up and down. “You have such a nice mouth, Sherlock, put it to good use. You’ve had plenty of practice.”

Sherlock glared back.

“You may be a powerful man, Jim, but my brother is just as powerful. Do you really believe you can escape him?”

“Oh, fuck your brother. I don’t care, Sherlock. I’ve still won. And even if I am to be locked away for a while, I’ll have these six months to remember, and then I won’t be so sad.” His eyes narrowed. “I’m prepared.”

With that, he heard a commotion outside the room. Moriarty placed his gun on the coffee table, taking in a deep breath.

“Well done Sherlock. Well done.”

The door was hit once. Shouting and screaming echoed into the room. Moriarty braced himself, rolling his head on his neck, before walking over to Sherlock and kissing him on the lips. He stood back; smiling his wicked smile, as the door crashed open and armed police officers swarmed the room.

“Welcome, boys.” He said playfully. They immediately dropped him to his feet, at gunpoint. Sherlock stood back against the wall as Moriarty was escorted out. He glanced back at Sherlock one last time, winking, before heading out the door. 

Sherlock took a couple of deep breaths, and put his hand to his mouth. 

“A bit of a shock, I must say.” Said a familiar voice. 

Sherlock looked up. Mycroft stood at the door. He looked the same as usual, and just as composed. But his faced showed the stress of the months. It didn’t hide the smile he had on his face.

“Mycroft. On time as usual.” He said sarcastically, sitting on the sofa, putting his head in his hands for a moment. When he looked back up, his brother’s face had changed to a more serious expression.

“Yes, terribly sorry for the delay. He’s a tricky man. We have the whole police force, and even a few helicopters here at the moment. The street has been sealed off. You should feel very important.”

Sherlock stood up; brushing the creases in the expensive suit that Moriarty had purchased him.

“Oh, imagine the traffic.” He said simply.

Mycroft smiled.

 

Sherlock didn’t recognize the building from the inside, however looking out the window he was surprised to find he was still in London. Very, very surprised. He felt quite strange walking freely in halls, expecting somebody at any moment to attack him, or hold him at gunpoint and escort him back to the room. They went through a back door, and quickly into an expensive car that was waiting for them. He got in with his brother straight behind him, and they drove off, unseen. Sherlock saw the commotion around the front of the relatively normal looking building. News crews had started to form, and there were ambulances and people congregating around barriers, wondering what the fuss was about.

“It’s okay.” Said Mycroft plainly. “Nobody knows you’re alive. Only myself and Molly Hooper.”

Sherlock sighed, and smiled at the brief mention of Molly.

“She did well.” He said, putting his phone away. “You have her to thank.”

He said nothing, and tried to hide his smile as they drove away.

“Where are we going?” asked Sherlock suddenly.

“Scotland Yard.”

Sherlock frowned.

“We will be discrete, Sherlock. And I have a doctor waiting. It is the best place to be. Lestrade is waiting.”

“You said nobody knew I was alive.”

“He found out half an hour ago, Sherlock. It is quite difficult to keep it from him when the entirety of his employees are catching your kidnapper.”

Fair point. But Sherlock didn’t say anything.

“I don’t need a doctor, I’m fine.”

“You do, and you’re not.” Said Mycroft. “Let’s save that until later. In this traffic, it will be about twenty minutes before we arrive.”

Sherlock nearly scoffed at the comment about the traffic, but suddenly something else came to his mind.

“How is John?”

Mycroft’s expression softened. 

“Still at Baker Street. He’s to be as expected.”

“And he had no idea that he was being watched?”

“No.”

“And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. They’re okay?”

“Of course.”

Sherlock swallowed.

“When can I see John?”

“Whenever you are ready. He doesn’t know yet.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock confront's John.

The car outside of the surgery had been there for about 20 minutes. He knew it was there, but waited until his afternoon break to go out and investigate. Walking outside, John saw a young woman dressed in expensive clothing, typing away on her phone. 

Mycroft. 

He hadn’t heard From Mycroft in weeks. He knew he was trying to find Moriarty. He was also still paying Sherlock’s share of the rent, which was quite nice of him. But generally he only made contact when something significant had happened. 

He waltzed towards the attractive woman, clearing his voice.

“Anthea.” He said, adjusting his jacket. She looked up to him, confused for a moment before realising.

“Oh, yes, me. Hello.” She pointed to the car, smiling.

“Really? Where this time?”

She didn’t answer. 

“I can’t just leave. I’m working.”

She looked up to him.

“Oh no, it’s okay, it’s all been worked out.”

He huffed, hesitating, before shrugging and getting in the car. As she got in the other door and put on her seatbelt, he turned to her.

“Is there any point in my asking where we are going?”

“Scotland Yard.” She replied.

John was surprised at her blunt answer. He also suspected that is all he’d get out of her. 

The trip took longer than expected. Traffic was particularly bad that afternoon. The trip was also painfully awkward. John nearly laughed at the whole situation. But Mycroft had never dragged him out of work before, so it must be important, whatever it was.

They arrived at Scotland Yard. Anthea followed him out of the car, smiling some more. 

“What are you so happy about?” he asked, nodding to the driver. She walked into the building, and he followed.

They strode through the familiar, however unusually empty, hallways. She stopped at a door, and nodded to him.

“Have a great day, Doctor Watson.” She smiled.

“Umm, yeah, okay, you too.” He awkwardly smiled back. She waited for him to open the door.

“Oh, yeah, right.” He nodded, letting himself into the room. 

He walked into an observation room. It had a mirror on the wall, a chair and table set up, and Mycroft standing behind it all. He smiled as he saw John.

“John. Welcome. Please, sit down.”

John walked in slowly, closing the door and huffing.

“This has to stop, Mycroft. I have to work. Why couldn’t you simply phone?”

“What I am about to explain to you is worth being here for.” He said back, and John straightened up, paying attention.

“What’s happened? Have you found Moriarty?”

“Yes, we have.”

John gaped. This was unbelievable. This was fantastic. He felt a rush of adrenaline hit his body.

“Where? How? Has he told you anything?”

Mycroft sighed, looking to the floor for a moment.

“John, what has happened over the last six months has been for your own protection. And now, as I explain why, I really do recommend you sit down.

“Well I don’t want to sit down.” He said very seriously. “I want you to tell me why that psychopath killed my best friend!”

Mycroft stood silently, waiting for John to compose himself. 

“He didn’t.”

John did a double take. He took in a deep breath, nearly laughing.

“What’s going on, Mycroft?”

“Did you ever see the body, John?”

“What?”

“Sherlock. His body. Did you ever see it?”

“Well no. You said I couldn’t. And besides, Molly told me. She told me herself.”

“Yes, that will all be explained. Now really, sit down.”

“Are you trying to tell me,” started John, becoming quite red in the face. “That Sherlock’s not dead?”

“Yes John. I am.” 

John laughed. He actually laughed. He paced around the table, rubbing his chin, shaking his head, before turning back to Mycroft.

“Why are you doing this? Why? He’s dead, Mycroft. Dead.”

Mycroft stared back. He went to speak, but stopped himself. John stared back into his eyes. They looked sad. Mycroft cleared his throat.

“When you see him, please don’t give him a hard time. You have no idea what these past six months have been like for him.”

John just stood still on the spot, adrenaline still pumping through his veins.

“I don’t believe you.” Said John. “You lie, all the time, to get what you want.”

A door opened on the other side of the room. John didn’t turn around, his eyes fixed on Mycroft. 

“I agree, wholeheartedly.” Said a low voice.

John stopped. He thought his heart had as well. He swallowed, watching Mycroft’s expression.

“Turn around, John.” Said the voice again.

John closed his eyes. Breathing in deeply, he turned around.

And he was there. Sherlock. His best friend who had been dead for six months was standing right in front of him. He looked the same, but a lot paler, and a lot thinner. John looked at him up and down, before his legs gave way, and he had to stop himself from hitting the ground by leaning on a chair. He gasped, sitting on the chair properly, and putting his head in his hands. He closed his eyes, rubbed them, and opened them again. Sherlock was still there, staring back at him.

“How?” John said simply, pointing the man in front of him, his voice unsteady. “How are you here?”

“Mycroft, would you please leave?”

“Answer me, Sherlock. Answer me, please.”

Mycroft left the room the way Sherlock entered. John watched him leave, before turning back, wanting to vomit.

“I have been here the whole time.” Said Sherlock, his face a neutral expression. “In London. I was incapacitated.”

John huffed, rubbing his eyes.

“Incapacitated? What do you mean? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you make contact? WHY did Mycroft and Molly tell me you were dead? Please, I’d be delighted to know!”

Sherlock could see he was angry. And he had every right to be. His hands were bundled up tight, his knuckles going white. He pulled up another chair, and sat opposite John at the table. They sat silently for a couple of moments. John went from staring to Sherlock, to pacing the room, before sitting back down again. He kept shaking his head. He kept muttering to himself, pinching his arms. Sherlock just observed his poor friend, hoping he would understand what had happened, and why he had been kept in the dark. 

“For the past six months, I have been captured by Moriarty.”

John's head snapped towards Sherlock, his eyes wide.

“Captured?”

“The day I ‘died’. To tell it simply, he drugged me, stuck me in a car, and drove away.”

John shook his head. 

“No. No, because you see, they found a body.”

“No they didn’t.”

“No, Sherlock, they did. Molly showed me the records!” He was up on his feet, pointing to his face once again, trying to emphasise his words.

“Molly knew.”

He quieted. Taking in a deep breath. 

“Well, why couldn’t you escape? If they knew, why didn’t they save you?”

Sherlock swallowed, wiping his forehead, before continuing.

“It was for your protection. Moriarty threatened to kill you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade if I tried anything.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“The snipers, John! They’ve been following you for months, even before I went missing. They were pointed at you all. One wrong move, and you could have been dead. If Moriarty knew Mycroft was on to him, god knows what he would have done to you, or me.” 

Sherlock himself took a couple of deep breaths. He noticed John’s hand shaking, trying to piece everything together in his head. He sat back down, taking in a deep breath.

“But why couldn’t Mycroft tell me you were alive?”

“It was of the upmost importance that Moriarty believed the world thought me dead. Mycroft fabricated the story, John. If you knew, and tried looking for me, Mycroft’s cover could have been blown, and you, dead. You were still being watched.”

John was silent again. He stared at a spot on the wall, while Sherlock stared back at him.

“But, Molly…?”

“The snipers were already placed before Moriarty kidnapped me. I had planned to fake my own death. Molly was aiding me in doing this. Once I was ‘dead’, I could take down the snipers, and his network. Molly saw me being taken. The plan changed, and she had been told to go straight to Mycroft if anything went wrong.”

John sniffled, putting his hands together.

“So, these snipers are no longer following me?”

“No. You’re safe.”

“And Mrs. Hudson? And Lestrade?”

“Yes.”

“And Mycroft did this?”

“Yes.”

John stood up, putting his hands on his face and started pacing the room again. Sherlock could see tears forming in his eyes. He wanted to hug him. He hadn’t seen him in six months. He was glad he was okay, and still coping. 

“John, I didn’t even know if you were alive. Sometimes I thought Moriarty was lying. I asked every day. I made sure you were safe. I did everything he asked of me. I promise you, if it could have been any other way, I would have told you everything. I’m so very sorry, John.”

John looked up, his face softening. 

“Please, forgive me.”

John swallowed.

"You," he started, "Still have a lot to answer for. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nodded, not tempted to argue. John nodded to himself, before softening his gaze. He slowly walked forward and examined his face.

“You are really very pale and undernourished. Have you seen a doctor?”

Sherlock nearly smiled, but remembered what the meeting with said doctor had entailed.

“Yes, I have.”

“And, you are okay?”

“I am now.”

John narrowed his eyes, but tried not to dwell on the comment. He put his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and shook his head.

“You’re here. You are actually real.”

Sherlock finally smiled, nodding.

“I am not going anywhere.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are magnificent. I'm glad you're enjoying my terrible writing. :)

Sherlock knew he had to open up to John, but it didn’t mean he had to do so right away. He also knew that what Moriarty had done to him was not going to be kept a secret. John was going to find out, one way or another.

The doctor that Sherlock had seen after he had arrived had been very straightforward. He had straight out told her what had happened. Why shouldn’t he? They were all going to see the tapes. She tested him for STI’s, and even did a small examination as well as taking more blood.

Twenty minutes after this had happened, Sherlock spied Mycroft in Lestrade’s office, on his own, his face in his hands. He wasn’t crying, but you could see the distress on his tired face.

Well, so much for patient confidentially.

After all of that, was when John arrived.

They didn’t go home for some time. More questions needed answering. Sherlock jumped around them. He told them of the woman who was shot in front of him. When asked why, he told them to consult the tapes.

“What tapes?” asked John, who had hardly left his side since arriving.

“Surveillance tapes.” said Mycroft. “Sherlock has informed us that they were in every location Moriarty had him.”

“And when you get them, I want to see.” Interrupted Sherlock. “All of them.”

Mycroft and Lestrade both widened their eyes.

“Sherlock, I don’t think that is wise –“

“Don’t tell me what you think, Mycroft. I don’t care.”

The subject was closed.

 

They got back to Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson greeted them, her eyes already bloodshot. She was a blubbering mess, but Sherlock had no problem hugging her. He was glad to see her, even in this condition.

When they went upstairs, everything was nearly the same. Sherlock’s belongings were neatly stacked in corners, but not gone. John laughed, walking through the room.

“Mycroft refused to get rid of your things.” He said, picking up a beaker. “I can now see why.”

His bedroom was untouched. Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, looking around the room. This time, he was free to come and go. He wasn’t confined, and John was not going to die if he left.

Sherlock refused dinner, but had a cup of tea later on in the night. They both sat in the sitting room, silently. John tried small talk.

“I tried going on dates.” He said, circling the rim of his teacup with his finger. “But it didn’t work out most of the time. I also thought of moving out, but I didn’t want to leave Mrs. Hudson.”

Sherlock smiled a touch. John however, stared back at Sherlock, as if he we trying to deduce something for himself. Sherlock avoided his gaze, looking back to the television. There was still a lot he hadn’t told John. They hadn’t actually spoken about what Sherlock had been doing these last months, and what his captivity had been like. It was as if it were a taboo subject. John went to speak, before Sherlock’s phone beeped. It had been taken from him when he was abducted, but found when rescued. He looked to the message.

_Can we please meet up?_

\- MH

 

Sherlock hummed, smiling slightly, before sighing.

“Molly.” He said plainly, answering the question before it was even asked. “She wants to see me.”

 

_Bart’s. Tomorrow._

_\- S_

 

That morning, after breakfast, and John updating his blog, he and Sherlock got a taxi to the hospital. The morning had been a peculiar one. John had come downstairs at 5:30, sat down and stared at Sherlock on the couch.

“Just making sure you’re still here.” He had said with a nervous smile.

He hadn’t told Molly an exact time. And John was still coming to terms with everything that had happened. There was no way he was letting Sherlock go out on his own a day after he had come back. Sherlock didn’t stop him getting into the taxi with him. The ride was silent and the day was cold and gloomy. Unresolved tension lingered in the vehicle, and even the cab driver tried to make small talk. When they arrived to the morgue they saw Molly sitting at a desk filing out paper work. She looked up and dropped her pen and spilled her coffee. Sherlock walked in slowly, as she got up and walked over to him.

“You…you’re okay.” She whispered.

He didn’t nod. Instead, replying with a swift, “Hello, Molly.”

Her eyes dwelled with tears. She put her hand to her mouth before turning to John.

“John. I…I am so sorry. I couldn’t say. Mycroft told me – “

“Let’s not worry about that right now.” John said, calmly. He was still a bit upset, but he knew she was only helping. If it weren’t for Molly, Sherlock would still be with Moriarty, doing god knows what. He smiled back at her as she sighed in relief.

There was an awkward silence.

“John, why don’t you go and get yourself and Molly another coffee. I promise I’ll stay right here.”

As soon as John had left the room, Molly swung forward and embraced him in a hug, tears now freely falling, wetting his coat.

“I am so sorry.” She said, muffling her words in his shoulder blade. “I didn’t know what to do. I went to Mycroft, and…god I was so scared. I thought you were dead. I didn’t even –“

“Molly.” He interjected. She stopped, and let go of Sherlock finally, seeing he felt uncomfortable. She nodded, wiping her eyes.

“Sorry.”

He looked to her.

“Thank you.” He said. “Thank you, so very much. I know it must have been difficult to keep it a secret, especially from John. I wouldn’t be here today if it weren’t for you.”

She half blushed, but remembered the severity of the situation. She cleared her throat, leaning in to talk softly even though they were the only ones in the room.

“Has everything been sorted? Is John safe? Is everybody safe?”

Sherlock nodded, raising his eyebrows at Molly’s question.

They sat and spoke for a while, just the two of them. They spoke of what had happened, and what should have happened. He tried to tell her as much as he could about what Moriarty had done – of course not even touching on the sensitive topic on what had happened to him. He could see however that Molly saw his apprehension in that particular part of the story, and changed the subject.

“I just…if you ever need somebody to talk to, I’m here.”

He didn’t react to the comment, he didn't nod, and he didn’t even say thank you.

 

The weeks drifted by. Sherlock was not okay, and everybody could see it. He tried to act as “normal” as possible, but it wasn’t fooling anybody. Lestrade still hadn’t called him to a case, and John refused to let Sherlock take one on the website, claiming it was “too soon”. This sort of attitude ended with Sherlock slamming his bedroom door. He wasn’t sleeping well, and wasn’t eating. Sometimes he would wake up and expect Moriarty to be sitting on the edge of the bed. He still flinched at the sunlight emitted from his window in the morning.

Whenever Mycroft paid a short visit, (which was always when John was either out or at work), Sherlock stayed quiet, refusing to talk about anything that had happened. Mycroft knew everything of course; thanks to the trusty doctor he had seen the night he’d been found. His brother had bravely suggested therapy. Sherlock had ordered him to get out. Mycroft had simply shook his head at his brother’s ignorance, and assured him that everything was going to be okay.

Still, John knew nothing about what had happened. So it was no surprise when one evening John unexpectedly bought the topic up.

“What…what did you do? Six months. I mean, you must have been bored?”

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He looked up, apprehensive of the question.

“He left me movies, and puzzles.” Said Sherlock, sipping his tea.

He could tell that wasn’t the answer John had wanted to hear.

“Really? How strange.” He said, plainly.

“Indeed.”

Sherlock promised himself he would answer all of John’s questions. He had a right to know, especially after being kept in the dark. It wasn’t going to be easy

“Did he hurt you?” asked John, hesitantly waiting for an answer.

“Yes, he did.” He replied promptly.

John put his tea down, and sat back in his chair. They didn’t speak again for a while. Sherlock finally spoke up.

“I am okay, John.”

John shook his head.

“No, you see, I don’t think you are.”

Sherlock frowned. Tension flowed through the room. John spoke up.

“Moriarty is a psychopath.” Said John. “He had you at his mercy for six whole months. Now I don’t know what he did, but it can’t have been nice.”

Sherlock stared straight ahead, his heart beating fast. John knew he was listening.

“When you are ready to tell me, I’ll listen. I’ll be here, and you can tell me as much or as little as you like. I just want you to open up to me.”

“Well, that’s a little easier said than done, don’t you think, John?” Sherlock had snapped back. “I hardly think it’s any of your business.”

 _Lies. All lies_. He _wanted_ to tell John everything. He _wanted_ to open up.

John looked dumbfounded.

“Sherlock, I am one of the reasons you couldn’t escape. I…”

“Don’t you dare blame yourself!” Shouted Sherlock, standing finally. “I will not have that! I did not endure six months of torture just so you could feel sorry for yourself. I did it so you could stay alive.”

The room fell silent. John looked as if he were about to cry. Sherlock avoided his gaze, huffing as he sat back down on the couch, putting his head in his hands. He finally glanced up at his friend who was staring off in the opposite direction. He met Sherlock’s gaze quickly.

“Okay, Sherlock. Okay.”

And he stormed out of the room. He heard footsteps disappear up the staircase to the second floor, and the door slam unexpectedly.

It was then, that Sherlock willed himself not to cry. He tried and tried, but couldn’t stop the overflow of moisture flowing from his eyes, muffling his pleas in a pillow and wishing things were different.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock receives the parcel that changes everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry. There is no excuse for my not updating this story. I wanted to write more, but I am stuck. Thank you for putting up with my pathetic excuse of a story :)

A couple of days passed and the both of them acted as if the conversation had never occurred. Sherlock rarely slept, played the violin, and paced the room at night, while John looked on anxiously, waiting for his flat mate to break down. Sherlock hadn’t updated his website in a while, and after John had specifically said that he was to take on no cases, Sherlock hadn’t defied him. He relentlessly whined of his boredom, but curiously did nothing to stop it. This led John to believe that something wasn’t right, which was a ridiculous thought, as he knew Sherlock was not okay.

On a normal Friday afternoon, John came back from the surgery to find the mail uncollected – once again. He waltzed up the stairs, handing the letters addressed to Sherlock. As John made his way into the kitchen to open a phone bill, he heard a teacup smash to the ground. He rushed back into the living room. Sherlock was looking at a puffy, slightly large package. His complexion had turned pale and his mouth was agape, tea everywhere. 

“What’s the matter?” asked John. 

Sherlock just shook his head, clutching the letters and headed to his bedroom, closing the door. He opened the package with Mycroft’s handwriting. There inside was a slim hard drive, and a small card. On the card, written in neat handwriting, were the words, “As requested”. 

The tapes had arrived. He swallowed as he shakily plugged the hard drive into his laptop and saw the files. They were dated, and all there, every single one. He huffed as he clicked on the first file and pressed play.

He saw himself being hauled into the room by armed men, unconscious. He fast-forwarded the video to about a quarter of the way where there was movement. Moriarty entered the room. Video Sherlock awoke. He remembered the dialogue exactly. He saw himself pace around the room, anxious, and a touch afraid. He also stumbled, and Sherlock concluded that at that point he was still harnessing the drugs in his system. However, drugs or not, he still remembered every moment. 

When video Moriarty started overpowering him, Sherlock began to shake. He wiped his sweaty forehead, and tried to watch the screen. It became too much when Moriarty entered him, that he paused the video, reached over the side of the bed and lurched the contents of his stomach to the floor, heaving and coughing. It was painful, it was terrible, and when he thought about what he was watching, it made him sick still more.

He heard John at the door, but he didn’t enter the room. Sherlock was still hanging off the side of the bed, breathing deeply and getting his breath back. John’s eyes were fixed on the picture on the screen, before hurriedly stepping over the sick on the floor, and kneeling down to pat Sherlock on the back.

“All gone?” he asked, his voice unsteady. Sherlock nodded, wiping his mouth and sitting back up. John joined him on the bed. Silently, they both sat. Sherlock put his hands in his curls, pulling them and rubbing his eyes. John averted his eyes from Sherlock to the computer screen. His hand shook before he swallowed. The look on his face was unforgettable. 

“I’m sorry.” Said John, quietly.

Sherlock just wiped his mouth again, nodding a touch, and accepting the sentiment. He rested his head against the headboard of the bed, closing his eyes. 

“How many times?” asked John apprehensively. Sherlock shrugged.

“I lost count.” He whispered back. 

John gaped, before discreetly changing his stance. He put his hand on top of Sherlock’s. John was relieved that he didn’t pull away. He opened his eyes, and John could see him trying not to cry.

“Sometimes it would be every day, others, every second.” He said, looking in the opposite direction as he spoke. “As for how many times in a day, it depended on his mood, and how I “behaved”.” John had to look away at the comment. He turned back, his eyes fixed on Sherlock.

“It would be different all the time. Intercourse, foreplay, fellatio, even masturbation.” He shuddered. “And the one time with the girl. That’s on there as well.” He lazily pointed to the screen, before dropping his hand to the comforter, scrunching his eyes. 

John looked back to the still image on the screen. Sherlock’s face was contorted with Moriarty pointing a gun to his head. His arms were flailed out. 

“That was the first day,” said Sherlock, looking back to the screen. “At that moment, he kept saying ‘they’ll die, Sherlock. They’ll die’.

“I’m here.” John whispered. He squeezed his friend’s hand tighter. Sherlock actually smiled, before frowning again, looking to the screen.

“I still have a few bruises.” He whispered. He lifted his sleeves to find fading yellow spots on his arms. He lifted his shirt a touch. “He didn’t use physical injury too often. He cut me here. He got very excited. Oh, and this scar is from when he slammed me against the coffee table.”

John silently ran his hand over the scar, before pulling his shirt back down.

“Has Mycroft seen this?” asked John, gesturing to the hard drive. Sherlock nodded.

“He knew the moment I saw that damn doctor.” Said Sherlock, wiping his eyes. “And I suppose he has all of this footage himself.”

“Are you okay with that?” asked John. Sherlock actually chuckled.

“No, definitely not. But what can I do? They need to do their investigations.”

John was a bit dazed. Sherlock finally sat up straighter.

“Are you going to watch more of these?”

“Yes.” Said Sherlock impassively. 

“Do you want me to stay with you?”

Sherlock looked up, his eyes overwhelmed. He quietly shrugged.

“Can you take it?”

John hesitated, going to speak but stopping himself.

“John, I am sorry.” He whispered. “For not telling you, and for shutting you out. I planned to tell you everything. I really did.”

“It’s okay.” Whispered John. “That doesn’t matter now.”

Sherlock was too upset to argue. The bags under his eyes were prominent.

“When was the last time you got some sleep?”

Sherlock finally chuckled.

“I have had six hours of sleep these past two and a half days. Not much, John.”

He hauled his laptop onto his lap and scrolled through the files. He found one and clicked on it, turning the screen to John.

“This, was when Moriarty and I played connect four.” He didn’t smile, but said the sentence coolly with a touch of sarcasm. He pressed play and John watched the scene. Moriarty was eating an apple, Sherlock sitting opposite him. Moriarty smiled as he took his move. Sherlock sat and stared, before taking another. John shook his head.

“Unbelievable.” Said John. “He…he looks normal. It looks like two men playing a game.”

Sherlock’s lips curved at the comment, before nodding, the smile fading. 

“Indeed.” He whispered. “Half an hour after that, he raped me three times.”

John closed his eyes, shocked at how casually Sherlock spoke.

‘Turn it off. Just…I can’t watch this. Not now.”

Sherlock complied and closed the laptop lid. John looked remorseful. 

“I’m sorry.” Said John again. “I will, if you want me to stay with you. Just…it’s too soon.”

“Okay.” Said Sherlock, dubiously. “I’ll think about it.”

“Are you going to be okay?”

“No.” Said Sherlock straight away. John frowned, squeezing his friend’s hand again. 

“It’s very brave of you to let people see these, let alone me.” John said, standing up. 

“I know.” Said Sherlock.


End file.
